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    Aziraphale, a star recently knocked from his place in the sky, just wants to know why he's here. Crowley, a warlock who isn't terribly interested in living forever, just wants to be left alone.

    The universe has other plans.

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    1847. Aziraphale Fell arrives at Eden Hall to take up his new position as tutor to the young heir. The house is enormous, remote, and its occupants rather strange — but none more so than its master, the ill-mannered but inconveniently handsome Mr Crowley.

    Mr Crowley’s gaze lingered on him.

    ‘Now I see you in broad daylight, I can tell you’re no gentleman.’

    Aziraphale bristled. He was wearing his best ensemble, and it was of fine enough quality, if a little rumpled from the luggage.

    ‘Whereas you certainly look the part, even if your manners suggest otherwise.’

    A Victorian human AU loosely inspired by Jane Eyre, but with 50% less angst and 100% less spousal incarceration.

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    There were all these little hopes and musings Crowley buried so deep in his heart it ached to bring them out into the light to catalogue their faults and flaws, and each time Aziraphale sought him out, or asked his opinion on some weighty manner that was hanging on him, or even just smiled, those little wishings grew bigger and bigger, pressing in on him until he felt as if he was being crushed.

     

    “Princes do not fall in love with gardener boys,” he told himself one night, staring into the shard of looking glass he kept on a shelf, hoping it would help, hoping that hearing it out loud would make him believe it, would help him put all these ridiculous notions behind him.

     

    It didn't work.

     

    Crowley and Aziraphale, the gardener's boy and the prince, meet as children and develop an unlikely friendship.

    By the time they're twenty, everything has changed.

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    I have lived my whole life with a wrecked heart. Fr. Aziraphale Fell’s present mirrors his past, as long ago roommate, classmate, and former friend Anthony Crowley reappears in his life in an unexpected and disarming way, challenging Aziraphale’s choices, and bringing him back to the breaking point, when he made a decision he couldn’t take back. It isn’t temptation, it’s revelation.

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    It was at his 60th centennial review—Crowley had prepared a grandiose speech about his work in the Cold War (not him at all), gas prices, and the M-25—when Beelzebub walked into their office and slapped a file into his hands before slouching behind their desk. Which, not-so-shockingly, was made of bones.

    “A seduction?” Crowley said, looking down at the file with a frown. He hadn’t been given a seduction in nearly two thousand years. 

    “Not just any seduction,” Beelzebub said as they flopped into their chair and folded their hands in their lap. 

    Crowley flipped open the file and then nearly dropped it. “You want me to seduce an angel? Why?”

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